Marshmallow Insanity
by Cocoaspaces
Summary: There's a fine line between hate and love. That line is called sanity, and slowly but surely, I'm losing it. Threeshot, Dark!Byakuran x OC


_**There's a fine line between love and hate.**_

_**It's called sanity.**_

_**Don't let your hate blur with love.**_

_**You'll lose your sanity.**_

_**And gain insanity.**_

Sanity, something we never have enough of. Touches between us have never been platonic. Eyes glazed over with something reminiscent of love, but not quite. Lust that overpowers any kind of affectionate will. Roughness is something that we revere, but at the same time, hate with all our being. We're not lovers. We are lovers. We detest each other. So why do I keep finding myself in his bedroom, every morning, not even regretting the activities the night before? It's insanity.

There's a fine line between love and hate. The line can blur, temporarily, just for us, just so that we can touch, so that we can see each other, in our moments of weakness. We almost love it, but not quite. We hate it. The line is blurred for us. But soon, it'll go back to hatred, to love. Which will it be? It's insanity.

We, the both of us. Addressing us like that, like some sort of couple. It sets a sort of tightness in my chest, but at the same time, a feeling of satisfaction. Is this what we call love? Is it hate? I don't understand. It's insanity.

I hate him. He's there, so perfect. I hate how perfect he is. I love how perfect he is. I don't understand. I hate how I can nearly love him. No, I can't nearly love him. It's forbidden. But I do nearly love him. _I don't understand. _Because it's insanity, nothing but.

What is this messed up romance? Can this even be called romance? It's not quite love. It's hate. Or is it? The line is blurred. It's insanity. It's insanity. It's insanity.

I hate it. I hate how weak I feel, when I scream his name, when I throw fragile china at the wall, in fury, in frustration. It's sickening. It's repulsive. I hate how I think of him, when I touch myself, when I sleep alone. I hate how my hands drip with blood, with gore, and I can't help but wonder if he's alright. I hate how weak it makes me feel. I can't love him. I don't love him. Love is for the weak. I hate him. It's insanity.

I hate how when he sits next to me, my heart quickens. It feels like fear. It feels like terror, dread, or even anxiety. But it can't be. I'm not afraid of him. What is there to be afraid of? It's nothing but insanity.

I know he's slept with other women. It sickens me to the core, but I stay silent. We aren't in a relationship. We hate each other. I end up in his chamber at night more often than not, but we still hate. Hate, hate, hate. I'll never feel anything but hate for him. So what is this feeling? What's this horrible tightness? Why is there a tear dripping down my chin? It's insanity.

He's next to me now, cooing promises that I know he'll break. Promises are delicate, insubstantial things. His buries his face in my neck; arms around me, body around mine, rocking my still body, whispering sweet nothings. It's all a lie. We are a lie. It's insanity.

I'm intoxicated with his scent. I hate it so much, how sweet he smells. I can't get enough. He smells like marshmallows, like sweet lavender. He smells so sickeningly sweet, it's almost bitter. How ironic. How insane.

His scent isn't the only thing about him that's oxymoronic. How he seems to care, how he pretends to care. How he laughs when I need his care, how he cradles me against him. I know how much he hates me. I know how much he loves seeing me hurt, seeing me suffer. I know how he loves seeing me cling to him, how lost I look without him. He's sick. He's nauseating. He's insane.

"Byakuran." I say his name. He holds me. The feeling of support is enough. It's enough to keep me going. I know how much he wants me to suffer. I know how much I'm suffering. But this thing, so similar to love, is wrong. It's not love. It's not even hate anymore. It's insanity.

How ironic. We're both living on insanity, supporting each other. He needs me just as much as I need him. How laughable. How _sickening_. I love seeing him suffer. He loves seeing me suffer. It's intoxicating. It's unhealthy. It's insanity.

I can't make reality connect. I can't stop loving him in such a twisted way. It's not love. It's never going to be love. Love is either mutual or unrequited. It's neither for us. We hate each other. But in a twisted way, we love. Or is it just me? This is insanity.

I'm scared. I'm not scared of him. I'm scared of this feeling. How my heart beats rapidly, when I'm next to him. How my breath quickens. How he takes my hand. How I feel warm. How the comforting warmth starts to burn. How I'm terrified. It's the insanity, slowly taking over.

The best thing that can happen is death. I can never go back to living normally. I hate living like this. I want to die. But he doesn't want me to die, so I'll continue. Continue living. The truth is sickening. He loves to see me suffer, but he doesn't want me to die. He's insane.

The insanity is taking over. Laughter fills the air. It's my laughter, broken, shattered laughter. I can't continue. I have to continue. This whiteness is suddenly suffocating. He's watching me break, with eyes blue as ice. Funny, how they used to be warm blue, sky blue. Broken. Broken. Broken. _Insanity._

_**Goodbye, Sanity. **_

_**I'll miss you.**_


End file.
